Sword of Shiraya
The breeze, scented with cut stone and blossoming trees, tugged at Lorn's cloak as he stood alone on the Naboo Temple's training terrace. It was a place held sacred by its quiet anticipation. Scars marked the marble under his boots; faint burns, hairline cracks, the silent testament of lessons learned in sparring matches past.
The war games on New Cov might have ended days ago, but their impact hadn't faded for Lorn. The jungle had tested more than just his bladework. It had challenged the very core of his beliefs, his control, and the raw edges of his ego. He could still feel the memory of the Shaman's blade forcing his saber aside, the final leverage of her strength, not brute force, but something refined and knowing. It had been, against all expectations, a beautiful defeat.
And now, he waited.
The Republic had extended an invitation. Open doors, open minds. The Mandalorians were welcome to explore the Jedi way, an old olive branch, offered anew in a changed world. It wasn't politics that fueled Lorn's hope, but the sheer potential. The chance for understanding. The possibility of friction transformed into a forge.
He ran a thumb over the activation plate of his saber, feeling the dormant thrum beneath his fingertips without igniting it. She might come. The Warmaster. Runi. Perhaps she would bring her practice swords and that same unnerving calm that resided beneath her beast-helm. Or maybe she'd send another. Someone younger. Someone burning with anger. Lorn wasn't sure which he desired more.
The terrace gate stood open.
He could hear the river rushing along the base of the Temple cliffs. In the distance, the echoing laughter of Padawans drifted through the stone corridors. But here, on the terrace, only the wind spoke. The stillness before clashing steel. A place for warriors to draw breath before they drew their weapons.
Lorn exhaled slowly, settling into a low, ready stance. He would wait. Not just to test his mettle.
But to see who would meet him here and what they would bring with them.
